The Rock
by ivvthedivv
Summary: This is the HG in Peeta's perspective only what if a young girl,Freesia,is chosen instead of Prim? When her sister volunteers and the two tributes are thrown into the arena together, how will they help each other survive? my first fanfic! T because I'm paranoid. Please r&r! its better than it sounds! suzanne collins owns the hunger games and its characters.
1. Chapter 1

Ch. 1

The loveliest spring day, but the farthest from our hearts. We all hate today, the reaping day, because we know that later tonight, two families will be mourning the unquestionable death of one child. And every child between the ages of 12 and 18 are asking themselves the same question: What if it's me?

The golden rays of the sunrise shining through the window are what wake me. The cobbled street is silent for once; everyone is huddled up inside, trying to move their mind away from what will happen later. I push the white blankets off of me and stand up, stretching. My small room is on the second floor of the bakery, facing the center of the square. Out of my window I see the vacant streets staring up at me, mocking me with the knowledge that they are safe, and I am not. Although being from the square gives me the advantage of not having to sign up for tesserae, I still have a chance to be chosen. This year, my name is entered five times, not much compared to the kids that live in the Seam. Far off, I can see the Peacekeepers and Capitol officials setting up the stage for later, when one boy and one girl will be chosen for the horrific Hunger Games. Will it be me? I can't help but wonder.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I meander over to my dresser and prepare for the day, dressing in my best attire. After combing my blond hair back out of my eyes, I pad softly down the stairs, being careful not to wake my sleeping dragon mother. If she is woken up, she will be spewing angry words of fire.

Downstairs in the bakery, my father is already hard at work, kneading dough for bread and pulling baked cakes out of the ovens. His burn-scarred arms are powdered with flour up to the elbows, and the counter also bears a layer of the fine white dust. At my silent entrance into the steaming kitchen, he mumbles a quiet "Mornin' son" and continues work after pushing a couple of freshly baked cakes towards me. Passively, I sit down on a stool at the counter and begin decorating the cakes, absentmindedly covering them in intricate flowers, animals, and words. I love to paint, but we can't afford expensive painting supplies, so I do the cakes.

Switching colors often, I weave a web of designs; each cake is different. In the middle of a pink and orange flower that is dominating the center of my second cake, there is a quiet knock on the back door. I put down my tools and, wiping my hands on my apron, walk to the door. The door opens easily under my touch and I am surprised to see Gale, a boy from the Seam, standing on the doorstep.

Gale clears his throat and says gruffly, "Is your father here?" I nod awkwardly. He is only two years older than me, but his towering frame makes him seem much older.

"Dad," I call, turning back into the shop. He stops his work for a moment and wipes his hands on his apron before heading to the door. He must be feeling generous on this mournful day because he trades an entire freshly baked loaf for one measly squirrel. He has a passion for wild squirrels, and is supplied with them thanks to Gale Hawthorne and Katniss Everdeen. Katniss Everdeen. The most beautiful girl ever. I have been in love with her ever since I first laid eyes on her, when we were 5. She has the radiance of a sunbeam; I just can't seem to get her face out of my mind.

Daydreaming, I stumble back to my stool and drop my head in my hands, smiling happily. Without knowing, I have drawn a picture of her on a new cake, the dark waves of hair, the deep grey eyes. Embarrassed, I scrape the colored icing away before my father can see and create a beautiful orange flower bud on the brink of blooming. A sunset orange. My favorite color.

For the rest of the morning I sit around on the rickety stool decorating the cakes and cookies. At one point my father takes a break and pulls a loaf of bread down from a cabinet. As usual, it is as hard as a rock, leftovers of what didn't sell two days ago. To hide the crunchy, disgusting texture I spread a thick layer of butter over the bread and dig in. Stale. Still Stale. Washing it down with a cool swig of water, I wipe the crumbs and water from my mouth and get back to work.

The sleeping dragon roars as she is awakened by my idiot brother Aster. Aster is my insensitive, arrogant, pugnacious older brother by two years. He pounds down the stairs screaming "Hungry!" Not worried about what my mother might do, he continues screaming until my father hands him a plate of stale bread. But by then it is already too late. First I hear a growl, and then she emerges from her cave, spewing smoke and fire, screaming angrily at the top of her lungs. She bounds down the stairs shrieking profanities at my brothers, me, my father, anyone who comes into her mind. I am surprised sometimes that our neighbors are not disturbed by her endless cacophony of noise.

My father rolls his eyes at her boisterous uproar and turns back to the new batch of bread coming out of the oven after plunking down a hot mug of coffee in front of her. The roasted smell billows into the air, mixing with the sweltering heat of the ovens and the scent of bread. It's like a jungle in here; the heat is increased by my mother's huffing fire breath as she breathes deeply in fury. She swigs most of her coffee in one gulp and seems to relax a bit. Sighing, the dragon releases hold on her and takes flight, standing by if it has a chance to take over her again.

"So," she drawls, sipping from her mug, "What time is the reaping?" Aster shudders from the corner where he's taken up residence and stuffs another piece of bread in his mouth. Although he chooses to display his self-absorbed, mocking side, on the inside he is a complete coward, which he conveniently hides from his friends.

"One," I reply, "The same as always." I exhale slowly, knowing it's no use to get riled up by her. She nods thoughtfully and reaches up to brush my shaggy blond hair out of my eyes.

"I need to cut your hair," she murmurs, lacerating my scalp with her long fingernails. "Tonight, after the reaping, I will cut everyone's hair. I don't want you all looking like some mangy little runt from the Seam." I roll my eyes, knowing that more than half of the kids from the Seam are better behaved than most of the people in my family.

"Mom!" Aster protests, shying away from a new haircut. He's been proud of his hair of late; his bully friends think it's cool. Biting back a snicker I clear his and my plates, taking them to the wash bucket where I begin to scrub them clean with a piece of lard soap and a bristle brush. My mother continues to rant about trivial gossip, not paying mind that my father stopped listening long ago and Aster has left the room. As she continues prattling on, my mind drifts to the woods, and, as always, Katniss. The steady rhythm of the brush on the plate helps me tune out my mother's droning voice and I focus on the reaping that will occur later. I don't have a big chance to be chosen, but it is still possible, and I am most worried about Katniss. Her name is entered 20 times, and there is a great chance that she might be chosen.

Glumly, I think about what will happen if she is chosen. I don't think I can survive without her, but maybe there's a chance that she could win. She's an amazing archer; if she gets her hands on a bow, she could probably win. But if not… I don't know what I'll do.

Shaking the gnawing thoughts from my head, I focus back on the cleaning. My mother has ended her rant, and is now stuffing herself with hard bread. The squirrel has mysteriously disappeared and my father has left the room. Probably to go get ready for later. Sighing, I get back to the cakes, setting them in a display in the front of the shop.

We head into the square at one o'clock precisely. Everyone is required to come, unless you are dying; if you don't, the Peacekeepers will imprison you. If you are late, you can be imprisoned, too.

The square is lined with shops, including ours, and there are banners hung around the square, as if it is a festival. The banners give it a holiday feel, although the reaping has darkened the faces of all the people standing solemnly around the square. The stage has been set up in the middle of the square and it has been draped with lavender fabric bearing the emblem of Panem, what is left of North America. Peacekeepers patrol the edges of the square and camera crews line the tops of every building like vultures waiting patiently for their prey.

People file in silently and sign in. The Capitol likes to keep tabs on us, counting the population. They wouldn't want us to become too large and powerful and spark a rebellion. Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped off areas marked off by ages with young ones near the front, and older ones in the back. I am separated from my family as my parents and older brother, Heath, move towards the perimeter, Aster is led into the eighteen-year-old section, and I'm pushed into the sixteen-year-old section.

Instantly, I am surrounded by a clump of other 16-year-old boys who are unusually silent due to nerves. My friends squeeze my shoulder nervously and I nod back to them in acknowledgement. Glancing over to the adjacent girls area, I catch a glimpse of Katniss and suck in a breath. She is absolutely gorgeous. Her hair is braided up and curled around her head and she is wearing a light blue dress made of a fine material. I stare at her longingly, but she doesn't catch my glance. I see she is exchanging glances with Gale. My friends catch my longing look and begin to snicker as Gale sees my gaze on Katniss. Embarrassed, I turn my head, hoping they do not see the blush creeping up my cheeks.

We focus our attention on the temporary stage set up in front of the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girl's ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful, spidery handwriting. My heart skips a beat.

Two of the three chairs contain the mayor, Mayor Undersee, a tall, gray-haired man, and Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. The mayor's daughter, Madge, is in my year at school. I wonder if he's worried about her being chosen. Probably not; a mayor's child hasn't been chosen for the games in years. The third chair belongs to a missing Haymitch Abernathy, the only still-living victor District 12 has. He is no doubt laying drunk somewhere while Capitol officials attempt to find him. He always is during the Hunger Games each year, and I don't blame him. It's probably hell to watch kids go into the games each year and come out still and lifeless, and not be able to do anything about it.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. The history of Panem, the rebellion of the Dark Days, the obliteration of District 13, and the formation of the Hunger Games as a retribution for all the damage the districts had caused. The Hunger Games takes 24 tributes, one boy and one girl, from each district and tosses them into some unknown arena where they must battle each other to the death.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch - this is the Capitol's idea of fun, and how they like to express their power. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. The real message is clear to all trying to survive in the districts. The Capitol has an abundance of power, and is not afraid to use it to make us bend to their will.

The Games are considered a festivity in the Capitol, and they expect us to rejoice as well. It is tortuous, watching children die, bloodied and pale, at the hands of other children. It sickens me.

"It is both a time or repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor. Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. District 12 has had two victors over the past 74 years. Haymitch and Pan Ester, who won the 11th annual Hunger Games and died 20 years ago, are the only two victors District 12 has ever had. Haymitch takes this moment to stumble up the steps and onto the stage, drunk as ever, falling confused onto a frightened Effie Trinket. Embarassed, she helps him to his seat, where he collapses in a bewildered trance.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is televised live, I'm sure right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. With his face tomato red, he attempts to distract the chattering crowd by introducing Effie.

With her face a mask of excitement and joy, Effie Trinket scuttles to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She must have a wig, for her pale pink curls have tilted precariously to one side of her head. She babbles about herself for a minute, while audience members exchanged bored looks.

Through the crowd, I spot Katniss, still exchanging looks with Gale. My heart skips a beat at her glowing beauty, and I shudder again at the thought of her going into the ghastly Hunger Games. A ghost of a smile plays around Gale's lips, and a pang of jealousy shoots through me. If only she looked at me like that! Suddenly I am thinking of Katniss and how the odds are not in her favor with her twenty names scattered through the glass girl's orb. And maybe Gale's thinking the same thing because his face darkens and he turns away. "You'll be fine!" I wish I could whisper to her.

It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Gentlemen first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the boys' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, swirling her hand for a dramatic effect, and pulls out a slip of paper, flourishing it theatrically. Silence reverberates through the crowd, and it is so quiet I fancy I can my own heartbeat, thumping quickly in nervousness. Would I volunteer for Aster? I honestly cannot even decide right now.

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in her high-pitched, whiny voice. And I won't have to worry about volunteering for Aster, or any of my friends because the name she calls isn't theirs.

It's Peeta Mellark.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch. 2

Shock. That is the first thing I feel. The name called out by Effie Trinket has flown out and hit me like an one hundred pound bag of flower to my stomach. I stand there, trying to remember to breathe, while I stare vacantly, completely confused. I notice that everyone around me has taken a step away from me, and I am left in the center of and empty circle. My friends are staring at me, eyes wide open in terror, as if I am about to murder them.

Swallowing the lump rising in my throat, I make my way out of the pen through the passage readily made by the other sixteen-year-old boys. From the sides of the square I hear a shriek as my mother sees me walking up to the stage. I cannot even bear to turn around. Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I hold them back. I'm on television. People nationwide can see me right now, as I make my way laboriously up to the stage. I wonder if I look ridiculous.

"Wonderful!" Effie chirps, wrapping a bony arm around my shoulders, "Peeta Mellark!" She asks for volunteers, but no one steps forward. Family only means so much on the day of the reaping, especially since my only legible family member is a stuck-up, no-good idiot. Now, on the stage, I stand rigidly, trying in vain to make time return to the morning when I was snug in my warm bed. Effie pats my shoulder in mock sympathy, seeing my shocked expression, and waltzes away to the other ball. I'm sure she doesn't mean to be so imprudent, it's just how she was brought up.

Effie Trinket is warbling in a high-pitched voice in front of the ever trembling crowd. Half of the audience is moaning sighs of relief, the terror of the day over. The other half is still shaking in fear. She reaches the ball and picks up the first name she comes across. She zips back to her podium, and I barely have enough time to wish for Katniss's safety before she's reading the name. "Freesia Glades."

I let out a sigh of relief, but cover it with coughing. A drunk Haymitch, sitting lopsided on his chair behind me, pats me hard on the back, knocking the breath out of me, and smiles manically. A tiny girl from the Seam has been chosen; she can't be more than 12 years old. My heart drops. I know I could never kill her. Her wide, innocent gray eyes, are so much like Katniss's.

I hear the grumbles of the crowd unhappy with the choosing of a 12-year-old. And then I see her, pale faced and tight lipped, doing everything she can to hold back her tears. Another girl begins shrieking from another roped off section. She has the same slender build, the same wide eyes; she must be Freesia's sister. She pushes others out of the way as she races up to the shaking, frightened child, and pushes her behind herself defiantly.

"I volunteer!" she gasps. Her voice is a pained whimper. "I volunteer as tribute!"

The stage erupts in chaos. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer since before I can remember, and I'm pretty neither the mayor nor Effie Trinket seems very sure of the rules. As far as I can remember, another legible boy or girl can take your place if they so desire. In some districts volunteering is a huge, honorable thing, especially in the Career districts like 1 and 2. But in District 12, where the word _tribute _is pretty much synonymous with the word _corpse_, volunteers are all but extinct.

"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter…" She trails off, quite unsure of what it is she's trying to say.

The younger girl, Freesia, is screaming hysterically behind her. She has wrapped her arms around the older girl, refusing to release her. "No, Poppy! No! You can't go!" she shrieks, sobbing. Peacekeepers have begun moving towards the pair. The older girl bends down, whispering in her ear, and the younger girl's arms slowly release her. She raises her chin up defiantly and begins walking up the aisle.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket as the girl mounts the stage stiffly. "What's your name, dear?"

The girl's eyes are wide as wide as saucers with fear. "P-poppy Glades," she stammers, barely whispering.

"I bet that was your sister." Effie exclaims, slinging her arm around the tiny girl. I see Poppy flinch at her touch. "Well, let's have a round of applause for our volunteer. That's the spirit of the Games!"

Not one person claps. During the silence, Haymitch chooses to come staggering across the stage to congratulate her. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers, throwing one arm around her shoulders. He's frightening her with his slurred motions and the wild look in his eyes. "I like her!" His eyes cross as he concentrates in his drunken state, giving him a ridiculous appearance. "More than you!" He releases her so fast she nearly falls over and starts for the front of the stage. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly into a camera.

I can't even understand his foolish antics. He can't be serious, it's just the liquor talking. As he stumbles to the edge of the stage he trips over the hem of his overly long coat and plummets from the stage, instantly out cold.

He's disgusting, but I'm appreciative for a moment to myself. The cameras are busy trailing after Haymitch, giving me time to breathe and relax before the horrors that lie before me now. Poppy looks relieved, too. I catch her gaze as she turns her head slightly and give a small smile, which she doesn't return. Her face is drawn and as white as a sheet.

Haymitch is quickly taken away, and Effie tries to pull the cameras back to herself. "What an exciting day!" she nearly screeches, very embarrassed. Her face has turned a horrendous shade of pink, matching her hair color perfectly. The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point – it's required -but I'm not listening to a word. My mind is full of relief that Katniss is safe, she is protected. I stare longingly at her shocked expression and our eyes lock for a moment, but I turn my gaze. I doubt she remembers me, the boy with the bread.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Poppy and I to shake hands. Hers are ice cold and stiff. I squeeze her hand encouragingly, but her face is frozen in a mask of terror and she won't look me in the eye.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays, marking the end of the reaping.

My luck has run out.


	3. Chapter 3

Ch. 3

The moment the anthem ends, Poppy and I are seized by Peacekeepers on standby and marched into the rundown Justice Building. Its faded marble façade gleams in the bright midday sun, clearly defining the cracks that twirl up the wall and the chunks missing from the shadowed corners.

Once inside, I'm conducted into a room and left alone. It's a beautiful room although a bit musty. The drapes and furniture are made from the finest red velvet, and the carpet is deep and soft. I try to prepare myself for the next hour. It is all the time we have to say goodbye to our family and friends. I don't know if I can contain my tears much longer.

My mother and father come first. She's already crying, sobbing into a silk hankerchief. Her eyes are puffy and red, and I know she's been crying for a long time already. I have never seen her so saddened by anything; she has never shown this much affection to me before. She rushes to my side and wraps her arms around me, weeping on my shoulder. Unable to contain my sorrow any longer, I, too, begin to cry, dampening her fine dress with my tears. Why? Why is this happening to me? The odds were in my favor, I should not have been chosen.

My father is as silent and stoic as death. He wears a grim expression, but he will not cry. He is a man. My mother releases me as my father comes over. He pulls me into a tight hug, and I know he doesn't believe I can win this. Tears fall harder. This is our final goodbye; neither of them believes I will return. He thrusts a white paper package into my hands as the Peacekeeper comes to the door to tell them their time is up. I hold it close to my heart, knowing that this is the last time I may ever see my parents again. They are yanked out the door forcefully, and I can just make out as he's led away my fathers voice.

"I love you."

I am crying too hard to notice my next visitors, my brothers Aster and Heath as they enter the room silently. Heath holds me close while Aster stands at a distance with a drawn face. I hope he feels guilty. His little brother is being sent to his death and he didn't even lift a finger.

"Maybe you can win," Heath says quietly. I nod my head miserably, not really believing him. He strokes my hair comfortingly and continues. "You're strong. You're fast. You can do it." I don't respond.

Our time is up before I know it. Heath gives me one last reassuring squeeze before he is gone. Tears drip down my face as I sit on the couch, stroking the couch rhythmically, waiting for what lies in store for me next. I fervently hope Katniss will come visit me and say good-bye, but I know that is too good to be true. She probably doesn't even remember I exist.

It's a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station. I've never ridden in a car before. Poppy also is looking about wonderingly.

The train station has reporters and film crews scurrying about chaotically, all cameras trained directly on Poppy's and my tear stained faces. I catch a glimpse of myself on the television screen on the wall that's airing our arrival live and see that I look young and scared, eyes red and swollen from crying. I know I will look like a weakling to the rest of the tributes, but that is the least of my worries right now.

While we wait to be loaded onto the train, we are forced to stand in the doorway while the cameras buzz about us excitedly like pesky bees. Then we are allowed into the cool of the train, which begins to move immediately.

The speed initially takes my breath away and the ground is yanked from beneath our feet, causing us to jolt and nearly fall. Poppy latches on to me for support, and then, embarrassed, rights herself and hangs on to a railing on the wall of the train. Of course, I've never been on a train. Travelling is forbidden to any people who are not permitted by the Capitol. Even though I haven't experience a train before, I can still tell that this is much finer than our usual coal trains. It's a refurbished Capitol model luxury train that can average 250 miles per hour. I'm positive we will be in the capitol soon enough.

Our train is a big pile of fanciness. It's decorated in even more elaborate extravagance than the Justice Building was. Poppy and I both receive a bedroom with a small closet and a bathroom. The bathroom has both a shower and a bathtub, which is an extreme luxury, even for me as a fairly well off family.

Drawers overflow with every kind of garment imaginable, in every fabric, in every color. Anything I could ever want to wear. Effie skips from the room after announcing in a pompous voice that I can do anything I wish, ask for anything I wish, as long as I'm on time for dinner. I peel off my suffocating long pants and white shirt and take a hot shower. I've never had a shower before. It's rejuvenating, like standing in a warm summer rain. I dress in comfortable dark pants and a tan shirt.

Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There's a table piled high with exquisite, highly breakable dishes. Poppy Glades sits waiting for us with a frightened expression commanding her face, the chair next to her empty. I wish I could go over there and comfort her, tell her that everything is all right. But it's not my place to, and everything is not okay.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie Trinket brightly, taking the empty seat next to Poppy and placing her pristine white napkin in her lap.

Poppy mumbles something like "Nap" incoherently and stares at her hands neatly folded in her lap.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie. I think she's relieved by Haymitch's absence, and who can blame her?

The supper comes in courses. A tender green salad begins the meal, followed by a thick vegetable and lamb stew, creamed corn, and thick slices of buttered bread. Not bread from our usual grain rations. Thick bakery bread, like what we sell in the bakery. Desert is a rich chocolate cake with raspberry ice cream and large, juicy berries. Neither Poppy nor I have ever seen so much rich food in one place at one time and by the time desert arrives, I've eaten at least two servings of everything. I continue to stuff myself until I'm full to bursting. Poppy eats a surprising amount for such a small little thing. We've never had food like this, so good and so much, and we could both use a few pounds, especially Poppy.

Effie attempts to make conversation with us, but our mouths are too full to reply, and so we sit there scarfing down dinner in an awkward silence. After the meal's over, I'm fighting to keep the food down. From Poppy's expression, so is she. Neither of us are used to such rich fare, even though I am from the square.

As the servants begin to clear away our plates, we are ushered into a plush compartment to watch a replay of all the reapings. I carefully take note of who will be our competition. The District 1 tributes are all prettied up, smiling seductively at the cameras. A monstrous and devious pair of tributes from District 2. A huge boy from District 11. And a tiny girl from 11 who looks about Poppy's age.

Last of all, they show District 12. Me being chosen. Then Freesia being chosen, Poppy running forward to take her place. You can't miss the desperation in her tiny wisp of a voice as she shoves the child behind her, as if she's afraid no one will hear and they'll take the younger girl away. I glance over at Poppy and see her bottom lip quivering; she's holding back tears. I turn back to the television. As if on cue, Haymitch falls off the stage, drawing a small smile from the trembling child next to me. I shake hands with Poppy. The screen fades to black.

Effie is complaining about the manners of the amusing Haymitch. For some reason I find this hilarious and burst out laughing. I recall past years when Haymitch threw up onstage, when he tried to sit down in his chair and missed, and one year when he didn't even show up. He always provides a bit of amusement on the mournful day. "He was drunk," I explain. "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Poppy chortles through the tears assembling in the corners of her eyes. I can't help smirking a little. Effie makes it sound like Haymitch is a young child who needs tutoring from her to make him a perfect gentleman.

Effie frowns comically, the corners of her pink mouth pulled down. "He is all you have in the games. I wouldn't find it amusing if he was the bridge between my life and death."

Just then Haymitch lurches into the compartment muttering uncomprehensively, slurring his words beyond comprehension. He totters about for a second longer before vomiting all over the expensive carpet, slipping, and plunging into the pool at his feet unconscious.

Effie shoots us a "see what I mean" look and flees the room, leaving us alone with our wasted mentor.


	4. Chapter 4

Ch. 4

For a few seconds, we are still, taking the sight of our mentor passed out on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. The sour reek bends my stomach, almost bringing up the rich food I have just devoured. Poppy also looks a little green. We exchange a glance. Obviously Haymitch isn't much, but Effie Trinket is right about one thing, once we're in the arena he's all we've got. Poppy sighs, and we both bend to pick up our wasted mentor.

"Let's get you back to your room," I say, speaking to him as I would to an ill child. He is blinking fast, as if stunned by his surroundings.

We help him back to his compartment and dump him in the shower to clean him off, not bothering to take his clothes off of him because he is so filthy.

I turn to Poppy and see her eyes wide open in fear. She stares at me mournfully. "It's okay," I soothe. "I can take care of it." She flees the room faster than I can say "Bye."

I peel Haymitch's clothes off and let the shower wash away the vomit and dirt that splatter his body for a little while. Then I let him dry off and hand him a nightgown to put on. As I leave he is tucking himself into bed and muttering incoherently about the Capitol and a television.

I meander down the hall, thinking about what just happened. I'm not sure why I did it, maybe I felt bad for him, maybe I wanted to make a good impression on him. Honestly, I have no idea; it had to be done, and I was the opportune person. Still wondering, I arrive in the corridor that houses Poppy's and my room. The floor is decorated in plush green carpeting and the walls are a similar green with striped patterns printed on. There are probably eight rooms total in this train compartment, only two of them occupied. Poppy's and mine are right across from each other, so when I get to them, I stand in the middle uncertainly. Then I make up my mind and knock on her door. She opens it after a little while, just a crack. Only one sharp grey eye peeps out at me. So similar to Katniss's.

"Yes?" she says quietly. I stare for a second and then swallow before replying.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You looked a little queasy," I stammer, swiping a hand through my hair.

"I'm fine, thanks," she replies curtly and I take it as a signal for me to leave.

"Well, I'll see you in the morning then."

"Sure." The door is shut and locked before I can say goodbye. At first I am astonished and somewhat hurt, but I realize that she must be reeling from the days events and wouldn't want to speak with someone who is to be her competition in the arena. I dally a bit before heading back to my room. I don't want to face the emptiness of it, without my family, without Katniss. I miss her too much already.

I realize that, although unwanted, I do need my sleep, so I head into my room and fall asleep on top of my bed, still wearing my nice capitol clothes.

I am awakened by a sharp rap on the door and a command from Effie to be ready for breakfast in 10 minutes. Yawning, I slip out of the warm nest of blankets and wash my face in the sink to perk me up. My clothes are rumpled, having slept in them, and in no fit condition to be worn again, so I open the wardrobe and pull on a fresh pair of tan shorts and a neatly pressed white shirt. Like it was just another day in the bakery.

Suddenly I am wracked with a vise-like pain, not physical, wrenching my heart. I miss my house, waking up in the mornings and working with my father in the steaming kitchen. I want my mother, my dragon mother, even her complaints. I miss my brothers, especially Heath with his knowing, blue eyes staring straight into me. I want to paint. I want Katniss. An image of her pops into my brain, knocking the breath out of me as if I have been kicked, and I dearly want to reach out and hug her, but she is miles away, most likely not giving me a thought. Will she notice when I am dead?

I find it hard to believe that I am so homesick. Who knew it was possible to miss the every day things in your life? Soothingly, I stroke the tiny paintbrush that I have just plucked from the pocket of my rumpled pants I wore yesterday. It is the only real painting tool I have ever owned, bought for me by my parents on my 12th birthday; the first year of my reaping experience. It is my treasure, and hopefully will be my token in the Games. I pocket it, and stumble out of my compartment, attempting, but failing, to smooth the hair that is sticking up on the back of my head. I give up; once we are in the Capitol they will make me presentable anyway.

Effie and Poppy glance up as I enter the room, and Effie glares, staring pointedly at a clock that is hung up on the far wall of the room. I am 2 minutes late. Sighing, I sit down in an empty chair across from Haymitch. He is smirking and winks as me as he catches my gaze. Although florid from last night's drinking, he seems in much better spirits. Servers heap my plate with minced fruit in all sizes, poached eggs, and thick rolls, butter just the way I like them. These rolls are not stale like what we would eat at home, though. They are freshly baked, still steaming from the oven. A tall glass of an orange liquid and a pale mug are plunked down in front of me. Both are so delicious that I drink three cups of each. Poppy tells me that the orange one is called orange juice and the brown is hot chocolate.

Poppy is the first done and sits back in her chair, scrutinizing the rest of us. Maybe she has deemed us good company because she finally joins in the conversation, which is the first time I've seen her speak during this journey. Effie daintily excuses herself, probably going to do some heavy primping before we arrive in the Capitol. Out of the corner of my eye I see Haymitch dumping a flask of something in a glass and turn on him.

"Will you quit drinking!" I cry, looking at him in angry disbelief. "We need you coherent if we are going to survive. We definitely do not want a repeat of last night." He stare at me for a second and then laughs, draining the cup in a single gulp.

Impatiently, Poppy gets his attention. "How do we survive in the Games?" He ponders this for a moment before smirking again, and goes to fill his cup again. Quick as a wink I snatch it from him and pour the flask's contents all over the intricately patterned carpet, glowering at his unbelievable inattentiveness. These are our lives on the line.

"Are you going to help us or not?" I demand, asking the real question. Haymitch looks us up and down, and then reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a spare flask of liquor. Poppy grunts in exasperation, drawing a smirk from Haymitch.

"Listen close, sweetheart," he rasps, laying a hand on her arm, which she promptly snatches away with a glare. "I will help you both if you don't mess with my drinking and do everything I say." As I start to object he interrupts, "Have no fear. I'll stay sober enough to be at your aid. Now, what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

I shrug. "I can bake and paint. Not much else." Poppy gazes up astounded.

"I've seen you lift really heavy bags of flour!" she exclaims. Haymitch looks vaguely interested and says something about strength being a good asset in the Games. "How about you, sweetheart?" he continues, staring pointedly at Poppy.

Her eyes widen and she raises her shoulders, muttering, "I can sew. I can wash clothes. I'm pretty good with plants. And I can climb trees pretty well." Haymitch nods, pretty impressed.

"Climbing and knowledge about edible plants are pretty important in the arena. But the rest of those things don't matter." He takes a huge swig from his glass just as we enter a dark tunnel. "Ah, finally here?"

It doesn't matter that he's just proclaimed that we have arrived at the Capitol; as we exit the tunnel the magnificent city emerges. It is nestled in between two hills and flamboyant houses and buildings litter the streets. Bright hues of color jump out at us, and we race to the windows to see more. Colorful cars and even more colorful, extravagant people meander down the cobbled streets. Shrieks of delight pierce the air as the bizarre people recognize the tribute train and begin lurching down the streets in shoes like stilts. Their faces are oddly painted, their multicolored hair standing straight up in incredible hairdos, their clothes wacky and somewhat repulsive.

Poppy's face is drawn and pale. The same feeling that is evident on her face is rolling around my stomach. These people dearly want to see us kill each other. They want to see us die. I clutch her hand in fear of falling over in terror, and she doesn't push me away. I think she's just as scared as I am, also in need of some support. These people are freaks, freaks who are prepared to slaughter 23 innocent children.

This is the beginning of the end.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I've been waiting in the small, pale blue room for over an hour when a petite lady walks in, toting a notepad and a large something wrapped in canvas. I quickly stash my paintbrush, which I have been rolling back and forth between my fingers impatiently while I waited, in my jacket pocket; the woman doesn't seem to mind. I take in her absurd fluorescent red hair, piled high on top of her head in the shape of an egg, her arms, which have vines twirling up them in intricate patterns, and most bizarre, her teeth. Each one has been serrated to look like half circles, and tiny flowers weave their ways across the surfaces. She is wearing a formal pink suit complete with a gigantic flower that blossoms on one shoulder and wraps around her body and a pair of impossibly high matching heels. Her eyebrows are missing, having been replaced with drawn on red lines, and her eyes are an unnatural shade of fuchsia.

As she strides towards me, one "eyebrow" raised high, she stares me up and down, taking in every detail in my appearance, and clucks despairingly. I know I'm a mess; I haven't brushed my hair or bathed since yesterday morning, but what was she expecting, a supermodel?

"Hello, dear, I am Portia Seelie, your stylist," she says in her whiny Capitol accent as she reaches down to shake my hand before conspicuously wiping her hand disgustedly on her pink skirt. "And you are Peeta Mellark. Well, we have some work to do don't we? Please change into this." She holds out a blue paper gown the same shade as the tiny room and stares at me expectantly with piercing and unnerving pink eyes. For a moment I stay unmoving, awkwardly unsure if I am supposed to take the gown and change in front of her or if she is going to leave the room. When she makes it clear that she is not going anywhere I snatch the gown hurriedly and switch clothes as quickly as I can.

"May I have those clothes back when I am finished today?" I ask meekly, thinking of my paintbrush in my pocket. She gazes at me strangely.

"You will be provided with all clothes you could ever desire while you are here," she snaps, but then sees my pained look. "But, yes, those clothes can be brought to your room." I sign involuntarily as Portia mumbles something incoherently about district youths and their attachment to everything.

"Alright, I am going to bring in your prep team and then I will see you later." She seems happy to go. I hear mumbles outside my door, and then a very energetic trio enters the room. They introduce themselves as Tarquin, a young man with nails ending in sharp claws and narrow cat eyes, Quirinus, a middle-aged man with blue-black curls and sharpened front teeth, and a girl, Pomona, who has sparkly skin and a non-existent nose under a relatively normal shade of brown hair. They get right down to work.

I am scrubbed until my skin aches, slathered with ten different conditioners, oiled, shined, and manicured. Quirinus shaves my face, which I don't understand because I barely have stubble, and then covers my face in a strong substance that burns where it touches skin. The same is done to my chest.

"The Capitol doesn't like the boys to look older," is all I get in explanation for this process. Finally they step back and look at their finished product. My hair glows gold, my skin is smooth and shiny, and I am clean. I get nods of approval from my whole prep team, and then they take their leave and I am alone again. Quirinus gives me a thumbs up as he exits the room. I can barely hold back the warm pricks in the corners of my eyes, but I know I have to. I have been in worst situations before. But this time it's different. My family, my friends, Katniss; they are all gone. I am utterly and totally alone.

A quick knock interrupts my reverie and my head snaps up just in time to see Portia dart back into the room. Her eyes shine in approval, but I'm too shocked to respond. I am positive that her eyes were pink before. Now they are violet.

"Can you hear me?" she snaps. "I said, take off your gown and close your eyes." I quickly do as I am told, stripping and shutting my eyes quickly. Portia does not seem like a person I would like to make angry with me. I feel a cool material being zipped up around my body and there is a clunk as something heavy is set down in front of me. "Okay. Look."

I do not recognize the person I see in the mirror. I am in a simple black unitard with splashes of black and silver glitter sparkling across the front. A very clunky pair of boots sit in front of me, and Portia gestures for me to put them on, which I do. They weigh a ton. She turns me around again and begins with my make-up. Bronzer, eyeliner and mascara, and a large quantity of black and silver glitter are applied to my exposed skin. When I see my reflection again I nearly laugh out loud.

Ridiculous. This is how I look and how I feel. I look like a large black fairy. The glitter has been splattered across my face, outlining my cheekbones and accenting my neck muscles. My eyes are dark with make-up. I can't believe I will be going out in front of the whole of Panem dressed like this; like a girl. It's shameful. But Portia is smiling happily so I pretend like it's the most wonderful costume I have ever seen. Just to make her happy.

"You are coal!" she explains, clapping her hands together like an overly excited toddler. I turn to look at her again, being careful to hide the disgusted thoughts that are bubbling in my stomach, and trip over my own feet in surprise, sitting down hard. Her eyes are light orange. What is wrong with these Capitol people? I just can't wait until I have to present myself to a whole crowd of them.

I am forced to eat lunch with her and detest the experience, even though the braised lemon chicken and creamy winter squash soup are divine. While I eat, she prattles on about the Games, and how excited she is to be a part of them this year. She is new, which I now understand is why she is stuck with 12, just like Effie is. I can tell how much she desires to be in with a better district; she makes it observantly clear. Apparently the Capitol doesn't think that District 12 is much of a player in their Games.

When lunch is over, I am herded down an elevator and into a large, brightly colored room decked in lavender drapes, orange walls and a maroon wooden floor. Most of the other tributes are already assembled, and I am relieved to find Poppy already here. I am not completely alone. She is an exact replica of me: the same black unitard flecked with glitter, the same clunky pair of boots. Her hair is pulled away from her face with a glittery black ribbon that is nearly invisible in her dark hair. Her dark hair that is the exact same shade as Katniss's.

I shake myself away from dreary thoughts of Katniss and run up to the tiny girl. She is standing with her stylist, a relatively normal-looking young man who introduces himself as Cinna, who immediately embraces Portia, his face aglow with praise for a job well done. I restrain myself from snorting. Yes, a job well done if you were trying to dress us as evil fairies. Poppy looks on the verge of giggling, too. She looks dismayed at our odd appearance as well, even though she doesn't look half as bad as I do. I flash her a freaked out look and we both erupt in laughter. Silence is palpable in the air as every person in the room turns to stare at us. Obviously laughter isn't common during the Games. Everyone shoots us venomous, odd looks and then turns back to their own conversations. A collective gasp echoes throughout the whole room. The horses and chariots are being brought out. It is almost time.

District by district, we are helped into our chariots, matched by a pair of horses. Our horses are the same dull black splashed with glitter as our unitards.

As we are helped up into the chariot, Poppy slips her hand into mine. Her face is drawn with nerves, her eyes wide and frightened like a small animal. My stomach flops and my feet jiggle nervously. The thin doors that connect us to the Opening Ceremonies are all that stand in the way of us and the entire population of the Capitol. District 1 is released and we hear an immediate roar of approval from the crowd. 1 is always a favorite – they make luxury items for the Capitol – expecially in their costumes tonight. They wear white fur coats atop a jewel encrusted outfit. The rest of the districts are counted off and then suddenly, we are the only ones left.

"Remember, smile and wave!" Cinna screams as we are whisked away and gallop away through the doors. My ears are first assaulted by the blasting music that resounds around the way. Then I take in the sights; extravagantly colorful people line the streets shrieking uncontrollably, roses shower down on the preferred tributes like rain. It is too much. I grip Poppy's hand for reassurance and then begin what I have been told to do. I smile until my face aches. I wave until my hand feels like it is about to drop off. Some of the crowd adores us, but many are booing. A delicate red rose is tossed to Poppy, which she catches daintily and tucks into her boot. A tomato is thrown at me and barely misses my head. The crowd has apparently conflicting feeling about us. I wonder if that is a good thing.

The chariot ride lasts minutes as we loop around the City Circle and then come to rest in front of the president's mansion. The music ends with a dramatic chord and President Snow steps up onto the balcony above us. He is a tiny and corpulent old man with hair the color of salt and eyes like dark beads, staring into your mind. The eyes of a snake. I shudder involuntarily at the sight of him. He welcomes us, the tributes, as is custom and the anthem plays, signifying the end of the ceremonies. The chariots make a final loop around the Circle and are ushered into the Training Center, where we are surrounded by our teams.

Our prep teams are there, immersing us in mounds of congratulations, as are our stylists, who pat us on the back. Everyone wears smiles. Even Haymitch, who has bothered to show up, nods in approval. The rest of the tributes ignore us, which is just fine by me, except for the small girl from 11, who smiles at Poppy. I'm happy to find that at least Poppy will have an ally in the Arena.

"You did really well out there," I mention to Poppy as we are being led through a wide hallway. "Didn't even look nervous or anything!" She smirks, and then unexpectedly launches herself into my arms. I start in surprise, but accept the hug.

"I trust you," she whispers, her soft hair, so much like Katniss's, tickling my ear. I can't help it; I break out into a smile. She beams back at me and we walk together, arm in arm, following our escorts.


	6. Chapter 6

Ch. 6

We are shoved into an elevator inside the Training Center, a building designed solely for the use of the tributes. Our chambers are here, as well as our training areas. Each district's rooms are on the floor number of their district. I push the button for 12 and the elevator, a spacey, glass contraption, shoots skyward. It is a complete thrill; I have never ridden in an elevator before today. Saddened by our leaving this first bit of fun I've experienced since we arrived, I follow the group of stylists, prep teams, and Effie out of the elevator and into the hall. Haymitch has long since disappeared. No doubt he's somewhere drinking himself to oblivion.

Effie Trinket is prattling on about something about us being amazing and having superb manners. Apparently District 12 doesn't always do so well. Last years tributes were dressed up in coal miner's outfits. She continues to babble, complimenting Portia and Cinna on their marvelous costumes and designs. She says she can't wait to see what our interview clothes will be like. I swallow the urge to vomit; I think I could bear the wait. I doubt we will win any sponsors by continuing our "dark fairy" look. Maybe next time we'll have wings!

"Don't worry, I have already been talking to sponsors!" Effie beams. "They simply adore you. I'll have to get Haymitch's opinion though…he's the final decision maker…" She trails off, absentmindedly fingering a pearl necklace that matches her gleaming white dress of feathers. She looks like a white peacock. She leads us down the hall, strutting, and shows each of us to our separate rooms. Like on the train, Poppy and I are on opposite sides of the hall. Effie wiggles her fingers in goodbye after reminding us that dinner is in exactly half an hour, and we are left to our own devices. Good, I can't wait to get this ridiculous outfit off. I quickly say "see you soon" to Poppy and enter my rooms, sighing in relief and then having my mouth drop open in shock.

The chambers are about the size of my house and twice as ornate. When you first walk in you are in a sitting room with a plush red sofa and a giant TV, nothing compared to the fuzzy old one at home. The bedroom is behind it. A giant king-sized bed takes up one wall of the room, covered in silken sheets and fluffy ivory blankets. A wardrobe with a panel instead of a handle is opposite, and a writing desk is pushed up close to the window that looks out on all of the Capitol. A remote on the desk lets you zoom in on almost anything you could want to see in the Capitol. The bathroom is a huge tiled thing, complete with a washing basin and not only a shower, but a large bathtub, too.

Immediately, I peel of the offending clothes and hop into the shower, too tired to deal with running a bath. There is a panel with at least a hundred different unlabeled buttons, so I run my hand along it and hope that whatever is chosen works enough. First a thick shampoo is rubbed into my scalp and then bubbles rain down on me from the ceiling. The water pressure keeps changing from extremely hard to way too soft and a gentle purple light pulses from the showerhead. Lastly, I am sprayed with a vial of liquid labeled _Eau de Rose_ until I stink of roses. The Capitol and their innovations never ceases to amaze me.

When I step out of the shower I am assaulted by powerful fans that blow me dry almost instantaneously. There are innumerable bottles of hair, skin, and everything else products, but I decide not to trifle with these for now and let my hair air-dry. I push a couple of buttons on the wardrobe panel and it deposits a pair of brown shorts and a pressed blue shirt into my waiting hands. They'll have to do. There is a huge menu with a microphone attached, presumably to order any delicacies you could want, but it's been nearly a half an hour, so I'll have to try it out later.

Effie, Poppy, Portia, Cinna, and an ill-looking Haymitch are already gathered around the food-laden tabled when I appear. Effie raises one pink eyebrow and stares at me pointedly. I sigh and respond in my head. _I know, I know. I'm late. _

Young men and women dressed in identical white uniforms serve us our supper. They offer us creamy red broth with fluffy bread, which was good, but made me secretly wish for the stale bread of my home. There was rosemary-wrapped veal, a small dish of arugula and beans, and small salty rolls filled with sweet sauce. I barely have the time to listen in on the conversation as I am stuffing myself with food, though I probably should since it's all about Poppy and me and what our next steps will be.

We eat dessert, a gooey, dark chocolate cake topped with creamy butterscotch icing, rapidly and gather around the huge television in the lounge to watch a replay of the night's events. I am immediately struck by how radiant the District 1 and 2 tributes appear. The crowd cheers boisterously for them, raining them with kisses and roses. The rest of us are nothing compared to them. Even then, Poppy and I make a pretty good impression, although, many Capitol inhabitants do not seem to enjoy our getup. Overall, our stylists and Haymitch and Effie seem to like the commotion we raised, and congratulate us magnificently. Hopefully we made just the right amount of splash.

Haymitch sees Poppy yawning from exhaustion and gathers that it is time for bed. Us tributes need to be bright and shiny for tomorrow.

"Tomorrow your training begins," he says, his voice gruff. "I'll discuss everything you need to know about anything at breakfast. Now, shoo. Off to bed with you." We do as he says and meander down the hall to our adjacent rooms, deliberately taking our time. I know I definitely cannot bear to be alone right now, but it's obvious that we do need our rest. So I whisper my goodnight and disappear into my room, barely catching her reply as my door shuts softly.

Later, in bed, the quiet goodnight bestowed upon me by Poppy morphs into the softly caressing tone of Katniss's lovely voice and lulls me into a contented slumber.

"Goodnight."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

I barely sleep. My dreams are haunted by images of the arena, horrifying, gruesome deaths, and most terrible, Katniss dying a slow, painful death, the blood draining from her drop by drop. I bolt upright in bed, panting and sweating in terror. Hoping that a blistering shower will burn away these dreadful thoughts, I hurry into the waiting water and am more careful with the buttons I press, not wanting to smell like a girl again. The hot shower does rejuvenate me, but I cannot shake the paralyzing image of Katniss with her hair slick with blood and her eyes wide and pleading in death.

My training clothes have been left on the bureau at the foot of my large bed and I slip them on with joy. They are not crazy, original costumes. They are comfortable and look nice without being overly extravagant. There are black pants and lace-up shoes, as well as a burgundy tunic. I have been told that each district has it's own color; I guess ours is dark red. Oddly, Effie hasn't given us a time to meet for breakfast, so I meander down the hall to the dining table and find it crowded with food. Poppy it already there, but our escort and victor are mysteriously absent.

Poppy, who is wearing the exact same thing as me, is eating slowly and silently, but smiles when she sees me. I fill a plate with sausages, eggs, and rolls with raspberry preserves and heaps of butter and sit across from the girl.

"Sleep well?" I mumble, my mouth already filled with food. She shrugs and continues eating. "Nightmares?" She looks up at me, nodding, so that I can see the dark circles rimming Katniss's, I mean Poppy's, gorgeous grey eyes. I sigh and reply, "Me, too." She doesn't speak.

Effie and Haymitch appear, the former prattling off advice for us during training and the latter staying unusually quiet. Since both of them have already eaten, they walk us to the elevator, Effie spouting information all the way. Haymitch finally pipes up when we are in front of the elevator.

"So," he drawls. "Training, today." Poppy and I exchange glances, and then nod. He continues without hesitating. "Try to stay clear of what you're best at. Peeta, no weights. Poppy, no climbing. Practice with weapons, fire, plants. Anything that will help you survive. If you want, stick together, but get to know some of the other tributes. Analyze their power, strengths and weaknesses, their behavior. See if you might want allies. That's about all I got. Have fun!" He smiles patronizingly and shoves us into the elevator.

Poppy is nervous; I can tell. Her hands are trembling and her foot jiggles up and down with fright. I touch her shoulder lightly but reassuringly.

"Hey! It's okay! It's just training!" She frowns more.

"Yes, it's just training. But in a few days it won't be. It will be real. And we may or may not be stiff and cold in a little box being shipped back to families broken or frozen with grief. And we are about to go meet the very people who are going to…" Her voice breaks and becomes a tiny whisper. "It's not fair!" She's right. It's not fair. For anyone, but especially her. She's just thirteen, a young girl, with the rest of her life ahead of her. A life that may, very soon, be extinguished. I pull her into a hug and then make her look into my eyes.

"I'm never going to let that happen!" I cry. "I will protect you. Always." She smiles tentatively up at me just as the elevators 'ding' open and we are swept into the Training Center. We are a floor below the main floor and have to follow a narrow hallway to the giant gymnasium, which is where our training will occur. The room is huge, larger than our Justice Building, The walls are lined with thousands of weapons, booth's are set up all over the place, as well as obstacle courses. The first thing that catches my eyes is the camouflage booth, set up to the far right, which houses innumerable tubs of paint. How I itch to get my hands on those brushes and paints! Even so, I restrain myself and look to Poppy.

She is sizing up the tributes while gazing at the climbing wall and apparatus mournfully, which Haymitch has forbidden her to use. I look at the tributes, too, and am surprised to see them all dressed exactly like us, but with different colored tunics. District 1 was gold, 2 bronze, 3 silver, 4 turquoise, 5 yellow, 6 purple, 7 brown, 8 pale blue, 9 tan, 10 black, 11 olive green, and 12 burgundy. Everyone also had their district number pinned on the left sleeve of their shirt. The Careers, Districts 1,2, and 4, all looked strong and capable of killing, as usual. The rest looked unceremonious, except for the fiery haired girl from 5, the tiny girl from 11 who I think is younger than Poppy, and the, well, man from 11 who looks as strong as an ox.

The trainer, Atala, calls us together and gives us the rules – no fighting with other tributes, experts are there to help us, and we may practice with assistants if we wish. She reads us of all the stations, which include survival skills and fighting skills, and then releases us. The Careers immediately head to the weapons sections and handle scary-looking weapons with ease. I stare in fascinated horror until I feel a tiny, cold hand on my arm and nearly jump out of my skin. Poppy is staring at me expectantly.

"Where do you want to go?" she asks. I shrug, my eyes still wide from fear. She sighs in exasperation, and leads me over to the snare station. In the minute after the instructor's explanation, Poppy has managed to set up an extremely complicated snare that twitches up prey from the ground and holds it out of the reach of predators. I can barely make a knot. The instructor, impressed with Poppy's work, looks down on my slipknot disdainfully. I try to leave the station as quickly as possible.

Next we try an obstacle course that includes jumping through hoops, running across the top of a thin wall, swinging on a rope from one podium to another, monkeybars, and floundering through 4 feet of water. We both get good times, but completely fail the swimming portion. Neither Poppy nor I have ever learned to swim. That is where District 4 has an advantage. One year, the arena flooded and everyone died. The victor won because she was the strongest swimmer. It just shows you you can be put anywhere. As long as it's entertaining.

Finally, I am allowed to go to the camouflage section. Poppy is okay; she can do some blending in, but this is where I excel. I weave an intricate design of paint and mud across my arm and hand until it blends into the table below it completely. Before I know it, I have drawn Katniss on my palm, her luxurious dark hair, the sparkling grey eyes. Poppy leans over my shoulder and stares at my palm quizzically. I do my best to hide it, but she's already seen.

"Who's that?" she asks, giggling slightly. I clear my throat, extremely embarrassed that I have let myself do this again, and mumble an answer.

"A girl."

"Yes, stupid, I know it's a girl. But what girl? From District 12? She looks like me, like she's from the Seam." She prods me in the side and I yelp and give up.

"Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. I've been in love with her since I was five." Poppy whistles.

"Wow, that's a pretty long time! Oh, wait! I think I know her! She hunts! My mom buys meat from her at the Hob!" she smiles and continues. "She's really pretty!" I sigh, I can't get her face from my mind. I love her so. Poppy abruptly changes the subject.

"So, how can you do that?" she questions, motioning down towards my palm and arm. "Paint like that. You're really good!" I smile and thank her, abashed.

"I do the cakes for the bakery. I love to paint, but I can't afford supplies, so I paint on the cakes." I fell awkward talking about myself this way; I'm not one to brag. I finger the brush in my pocket and decide I can trust Poppy with my most prized possession. "This is the only real instrument I own. It's really special to me. I guess it's my token. Maybe it'll be good luck." She grins and reaches out to touch the smooth wood of the handle.

"That's really sweet!" Suddenly, I'm glad we are friends. I really could use someone to help support me here.

The next three days pass in a blur of stations and courses. We both learn a bunch of new techniques and helpful skills like starting a fire and throwing spears. I even take it upon myself to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow, since it's Katniss's favored weapon. I suck, but Poppy is actually fairly decent. Just like Haymitch said, we stay away from the climbing and weight-lifting stations, but I see it's paining Poppy that she can't get her hands on the climbing equipment.

I didn't even notice the Gamemakers until the second day. They sit on raised platforms and observe us, even taking notes sometimes. Sometimes they walk around the gym, watching the movements of each of us.

Although we eat breakfast and dinner on our floor with Effie and Haymitch, we are forced to eat lunch with the other tributes in the Training Center. It's buffet style, and tables are set up around the room so you can sit with anyone. Almost everyone sits alone or with their district partners, except for the Careers. Poppy has struck up a friendship with the tiny District 11 girl, and we have learned that her name is Rue. She sits with us at lunch and is a really bright little girl. Her and Poppy are actually much alike and converse easily, laughing and sharing jokes while I sit there quite awkwardly, the third wheel.

I'm not going to lie, I am pretty terrified of the Careers. The girls from 1 and 2 are ditzy, but strong. The 2 girl excels in knife throwing. The boy from 2 is possibly the most menacing person I have ever laid eyes on. His biceps are the size of my thighs and he has this haughty expression laced with so much malice that I believe he might be slightly unhinged. He is deadly with a sword, malevolent with almost any weapon he lays hands on. If I met him face to face in the arena I would turn and run as fast as I could.

The next day, Rue joins us at almost every station. Unlike us, she has no order to restrain her talents and takes much joy in showing off. She can reach the top of the climbing wall in less than 10 seconds and roosts among the rafters, peering down on those of us below. I have to rest my hand on Poppy's shoulder to keep her from scaling the wall and joining Rue.

After lunch, when we are practicing spear throwing, I see the two of them conspiring together, two dark heads bowed together, whispered chattering barely reaching my ears. It's almost an hour later when I finally comprehend their mutterings.

"Where did you put it?" The voice of the District 2 boy is a low growl, full of spite. He is speaking to the boy from 9, and shoves him viciously. The smaller boy falls hard and scuttles back on his hands and knees.

"I swear! I didn't take it!" the boy moans, hiding his face in his hands. My attention is suddenly averted to a small motion above us. I am shocked by the appearance of Rue hanging upside-down from her knees on a rafter, clutching a wickedly long blade in her tiny, but capable hands. Off to the side is Poppy, barely containing her laughter, with the biggest smile I have ever seen her wear stretching from ear to ear.

"Where did you put my sword?" District 2 asks, his voice rising to a shriek. The other boy is trembling now, tears threatening to spill from his wide blue eyes. I can contain myself any longer and a smirk breaks out on my face. Suddenly, the menacing boy rounds on me.

"Are you laughing, 12? Think it's funny, do you? You hide my sword, 12?" He grabs me by the shirt and shoves me back, continuing to speak. "Is it funny now? Is it?" He strikes me across the face and, as I reel backwards, I am launching into painful memories of me in the same position with my mother. Burning bread. Being kicked outside to feed it to the pigs. Seeing an emaciated Katniss rummaging through my trash, and then chucking her the burned bread. She didn't even look at me, but I loved her even more.

I am awakened from my memories by the faint grunts as two peacekeepers fight to hold back a struggling giant. I jump at the sound of whispers in my ear, and feel the thin arms of Poppy lugging me away from the scene. We slip behind a huge mat and I sink to the ground, clutching my aching cheek. Poppy is staring at me curiously.

"Sorry," she whispers finally. I can tell she really is, and blames herself for the huge boy's attack.

"It wasn't your fault," I console, but she still looks at me mournfully. We are both startled by Rue, who drops quickly from the ceiling, gripping a small satchel. She hands it to me, and I realize it is a small packet of ice. Gratefully, I press it against my face, which has already begun to swell and bruise. She slips down beside me, and the similar girls look at me with identical confused expressions.

"Why?" Rue asks. "Why didn't you rat us out?" The genuinely don't understand. My brows furrow before I answer.

"You guys didn't do anything. I provoked him by smiling. And I wouldn't have told him you stole it anyway. We're friends." They smile at my response. At least they accept it. I wonder what it says about me that I have only associated with 12 and 13-year-olds since the reaping. I wonder what Katniss thinks about me, if she even thinks about me at all. It's not likely.

The days, possibly the last few of my life, pass by much too quickly for my liking. All too soon it is the third day, and we are preparing for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. After lunch, we are herded into a waiting room outside the Training Center and are forced to wait as, one by one, our names are called to perform. We go in numerical order, one district after another, girl boy, girl boy. Which makes me last. Every Career comes out of the room with a satisfied grin on their faces, which intimidates us all. We both wish good luck to Rue.

Finally, Poppy and I are left alone. We sit in tense silence and Poppy's feet jiggle a bit as she waits nervously. A woman with a line of dark triangles instead of eyebrows enters the room.

"Poppy Glades!" The way she says it reminds me too much of the reaping, and I try to refrain from delving into those memories again. I wish the small child good luck and tell her to give it all she's got. She looks at me, attempting to smile, trying to tell me how glad she is for my support. It's at least 10 minutes until my name is called. The Center is large and dark when it's abandoned. The Gamemakers still sit on their raised platforms, most of them drunk, a couple passed out already. None of them pay any attention to me, so I announce myself.

"Peeta Mellark, District 12," I declare. I'm met with no response; they are too busy conversing, gorging themselves, and napping. I sigh and head to the camouflage section; if they aren't going to mind me it's better I do something I actually enjoy. I swirl paints, berry juice, and mud across my body until I blend into the maroon wall behind me, but the Gamemakers don't even notice I have disappeared. Next I paint myself into a fake tree. I see I have confused some of them, which probably isn't an actual feat because they are already inebriated. Starting to despair, I end up heading to the weights section.

Since training began I have not even set foot in this area, staying true to my word to Haymitch. Not that I wanted to. I don't see weightlifting as a commendable achievement. I pick a couple of 50 pounders up and juggle them, ignored again. Next are the 100's. These fly all the way across the room. Seeing that I have finally caught a couple of their eyes, I decide for an ultimate finale. I grab a 200 pound weight in each hand and send them into the air. They make it about halfway across the room, which is not bad. One particularly tipsy woman struggles to her feet and applauds me giddily before swaying and collapsing into the lap of a man. Unsure of what to do, I stand there until the Gamemakers begin to clasp each other's arms and sing.

That's when I leave.


End file.
